38. Lucy
38
Lucy
T he Plaza ballroom glitters obnoxiously, dripping with crystal chandeliers and enough white roses to trigger a national pollen shortage. The air hums with hushed gossip and the clink of champagne glasses.
Exactly the kind of suffocating event I usually try to avoid.
Only tonight, I’m the ringmaster.
Fun times.
I did manage to swing by Dad’s apartment before heading over here. He looked frail, propped up in his favorite armchair, but his eyes were clear. He actually seemed… content, believe it or not.
We talked about the company. The safe parts, anyway. He mostly listened, offering quiet encouragement instead of unsolicited advice.
When I floated the idea of maybe postponing the gala, he waved a dismissive hand.
“Nonsense, Lucy. Hammond & Co. needs this. You need this. Show them what you’re made of.”
Then he promised, hand on heart, to stay put and not attempt any covert expedition to the gala .
Small mercies.
Now I just need to survive tonight.
I’m standing backstage, just moments before my opening speech. My stomach feels like it’s performing Cirque du Soleil routines. My palms are sweating. My dress, a sapphire blue silk number Ava helped me pick, feels too tight. And the scarf I’m wearing to hide all the hickeys Christopher gave me feels like a noose.
Okay, Lucy. You signed a massive partnership deal earlier. You can give a five-minute speech without fainting.
Probably.
I take the podium. A sea of familiar and vaguely threatening faces stares back.
Investors. Clients. Competitors. Vultures, too, probably.
And somewhere out there… Christopher.
And his father.
Joy.
“Good evening, everyone,” I begin, my voice slightly trembling at first, then steadying.
I launch into the speech I rehearsed a thousand times.
Honoring the past fifty years of building skylines and communities.
Carefully acknowledging the recent “challenges.”
Then pivoting, hard, towards the future.
Innovation.
Adaptation.
Growth.
“And a crucial part of that future,” I say, scanning the crowd until my eyes find him, standing near the back, radiating quiet intensity, “is our new strategic partnership with Blackwell Innovations. ”
A murmur ripples through the room. Heads turn towards Christopher.
He meets my gaze, a subtle nod of encouragement.
“Under the leadership of Christopher Blackwell,” I continue. “This partnership represents not just an investment, but a shared vision. A commitment to blending Hammond’s legacy with cutting-edge technology and sustainable development. We are incredibly excited about the possibilities ahead.”
Take that , rumor mill.
We are united.
Officially.
Publicly.
I finish the speech, plastering a confident smile on my face as applause politely fills the room.
Step one: survive the public speaking part. Done. Step two: navigate the shark-infested waters known as mingling.
Let the games begin.
It’s exhausting. A whirlwind of air kisses, firm handshakes, and probing questions disguised as pleasantries.
Amid the sea of suits, I spot Ava looking like she just stepped off a red carpet, Gideon King firmly attached to her arm like the world’s most handsome, ridiculously wealthy security detail. Wherever they go, heads turn and conversations pause.
Ava throws me a dazzling smile and a discreet thumbs-up across the room before making a beeline for the bar, whispering something to Gideon that probably translates to: ‘Tonight is all about Lucy, let’s not hog the limelight!’ Aka, ‘Let’s get bubbly before people start asking us for loans.’
Classic Ava.
Love her.
I return to mingling.
“Lucy, darling! Thrilled to see you stepping up!” Mrs. Astorworth gushes, her diamonds flashing. “Though one does worry, such a burden for a young woman…”
Translation: Can you actually handle this, or are you just keeping the seat warm?
“Richard always spoke so highly of your artistic and photographic sensibilities,” drawls Mr. Henderson from Sterling Properties, a known competitor. “Interesting to see you applying them to… finance.”
Translation: You’re an artsy lightweight who’s in way over her head.
“Must be quite the… adjustment… working so closely with Christopher Blackwell now?” asks a rival developer, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Such different approaches to business.”
Translation: Are you sleeping with him and is he running your company now?
I smile. I deflect. I talk synergy and future-proofing. I drop Christopher’s name strategically. I try not to blush every time someone mentions him, failing spectacularly at least twice.
I feel like I’m tap-dancing through a minefield in high heels.
Through it all, I’m acutely aware of two figures shadowing my periphery. Darius Wade, looking sharp in a suit tonight, occasionally nodding to someone as if he belongs, but his eyes constantly scanning. And Rebecca Torres, blending near the bar, looking like just another guest until you notice the earpiece and the way she never quite relaxes.
My security detail, courtesy of Christopher .
Still feels utterly bizarre. Like I’m starring in a very weird, very high-stakes episode of The Bodyguard.
Then comes the moment I’ve been dreading.
Mark Blackwell materializes beside me, appearing out of nowhere like a perfectly tailored phantom.
He smiles, a cold, thin curve of the lips that doesn’t reach his calculating eyes.
He smells faintly of expensive cologne.
And impending doom.
“Ms. Hammond,” he greets me smoothly. “Congratulations on a lovely event. And on your… temporary position. Richard must be very proud. So happy to hear he’s recovering well.”
“Mr. Blackwell,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, my hand automatically tightening on my champagne flute.
Easy, Lucy. Don’t engage. Don’t show fear.
I catch Darius’s eye across the room. He gives a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod.
He sees Blackwell.
He’s ready.
The thought is both terrifying and reassuring.
“Yes, it’s certainly a time of transition for Hammond & Co.,” Mark continues, taking a delicate sip of champagne, his gaze sweeping the room before landing back on me. “So much history. So many… intricate arrangements built up over the years.” He lowers his voice slightly, leaning in conspiratorially. “One hopes, for Richard’s sake, that certain complex off-book structures remain undisturbed. Old skeletons, you know. Best not to rattle them, especially when a man is recovering. Would be a shame if news broke while he was in his current state.”
My blood runs cold. There it is. The threat, delivered with smiling precision.
Off-book structures.
He’s talking about the SPEs. And he’s trying to leverage my father’s health against me.
The absolute bastard .
I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. Christopher already protected me from this exact threat once. Mark’s leverage isn’t as powerful as he thinks, not anymore.
But the venom behind the words is real.
“Hammond & Co. is focused on moving forward, Mr. Blackwell,” I say politely, my voice like ice. “We’re confident in our future, thanks in no small part to our partnership with your son.” I deliberately emphasize the connection, the alliance . “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must mingle with my other guests.”
I give him a tight, dismissive smile and turn away before he can respond.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I almost expect him to physically tackle me at any moment.
Walk, Lucy. Just walk.
I resist the urge to look back, to see his reaction.
Later, nursing a glass of water near the edge of the ballroom, trying to get my pulse back to a non-terrified pace, I spot them.
Mark Blackwell and Morgan Weiss, heads bent together in intense conversation near a service corridor. Morgan looks agitated, gesturing emphatically. Mark looks calm, listening intently, occasionally nodding.
Well, we already knew they were working together. But seeing them huddled like scheming gargoyles just makes it… tangible.
What are they planning now?
My first instinct is to march over there. To confront them. To call them out on their slimy tactics. But what would that accomplish? A public scene? Giving them the satisfaction of knowing they got under my skin?
No. That’s what they want.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head.
Trust your instincts.
My instinct right now isn’t confrontation.
It’s vigilance. Strategy. Playing the long game.
I know about the SPEs. Christopher knows. His team is already working, discreetly, to defuse that bomb. Mark and Morgan think they hold a trump card, but its value is diminishing by the hour.
Let them scheme. Let them whisper in corners.
Tonight is about Hammond & Co.
About projecting strength.
About celebrating survival and signaling a new chapter.
I straighten my shoulders, smooth down my dress, and scan the room for Christopher. He’s talking to Dominic Rossi near the bar, the two of them a formidable pair of billionaire powerhouses.
As if sensing my gaze, Christopher looks up, his eyes finding mine across the crowded room. He gives me a subtle nod, a silent question.
You okay?
I offer him a small, genuine smile in return.
A-okay. Handling it.
He excuses himself from Dominic and starts making his way towards me, navigating the crowd with effortless grace. The sharks might be circling, the waters treacherous, but seeing him walk towards me, solid and unwavering… it feels like finding shore.
Predictably, a path just magically clears for him. People sort of… melt backwards. Heads crane. The ambient chatter drops a few decibels.
He’s panty-dropping gorgeous of course. Silk blouses shift on flushed skin as women lean into his trajectory. Husbands’ jaws tighten even as their eyes track him like hungry satellites.
I have to smile. God, the effect he has on a room is just ridiculous.
When he joins me, I instinctively reach for his hand, and grip it tight.
Mine.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Never better,” I tell him. And it’s the truth.
Tonight isn’t just about survival. It’s about partnership.
It’s about facing the threats together.
Mark Blackwell wants to rattle skeletons?
Let him try.
We’re ready.